There Can Be Only One
by Fyrie
Summary: Harry Potter & Wee Free Men (Discworld) crossover: Returned to the Land of the Living, a small clan of Nac Mac Feegles find themselves thrown headlong into a world they never expected, without Gonnagle or Kelda. What're they to do?


There Can Be Only One

Notes: This is technically, kind of sort of an engagement present for Ashfae. What can I say? I'm cheap :) And she did ask nicely, so who am I to refuse?

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night when our tale begins, a tale of witches and magic and things that go bump in the night.

Well, it _was_ dark-ish and there _was_ a hesitant north-easterly wind, which had the potential to give you a nasty cold, if it would just get up its nerve. And, while it _was_ technically daylight, if you were standing where our heroes were standing and shared the same less-than-generous brain capacity, you would probably be pretty damn sure it was night-time as well.

As for the witches, they just have to stick their noses in, don't they?

But back to our particular heroes, that rampaging band, who are also the people who actually make the things that go bump in the night go bump and learn very quickly not to do it again.

A veritable legion they stand together, armed and ready to face whatever challenges await them in the surrounding darkness with aplomb and vim and other words only ever used by motivational speakers.

In the deep heart of darkness, surrounded on all sides by trees and creatures that most parents think they make up to frighten their children, far from the friendly warmth of sunlight and green grass, they are oblivious to the danger.

That is the danger they present to any unfortunate passer-by.

"But we're lost!"

"Dinnae be daft, Wee Daft Boab!"

There was a pause of deep - or perhaps dense - consideration. "But if I wisnae daft, I wid be Wee Boab and Wee Boab widnae like that."

The leader of the merry band, Canny Big Hamish thumped Wee Daft Boab soundly on the head with his fist. "We arenae lost, ye daft puddin'," he said firmly. "I know exactly whaur we are."

"Oh aye?" Rab Sody demanded. "So ye say."

"Aye," Canny Big Hamish growled, turning on the latest one of the horde to question his authority. He had taken the lead as he had been born only moments after the Clan's previous Big Man, Rob Anybody, and since Canny Big Hamish was back in the Old World and Rab wasn't, he was going to be the Big Man. "We are _here_."

This answer was met with impressed looks.

Only a real Big Man could see sense like that.

Rab Sody opened his mouth to say something, then fell silent, glaring at Canny Big Hamish and smacking the unfortunate Wee Daft Boab on the head.

"So, whit are we gonnae dae, Hamish?" Soapy - so-called due to certain unpleasant dietary habits by Feegle standards - asked.

"Ah'm thinkin'," Canny Big Hamish snapped.

A chorus of "Ooohs!" went up.

"Now that's Big Man talk," Medium-Sized Jimmy said in awe.

Canny Big Hamish acknowledged this acceptance of his leadership with a slow nod, peering around at the forest. "Dae we have anyone gonnagle-trained?" he asked, stabbing at the ground with his sword.

Twenty-six pairs of feet shuffled uncomfortably, fifty-one eyes squinting at each other, the rustles of kilts harmonised with the sheepish clearing of throats, "No, Canny Big Hamish..."

Canny Big Hamish frowned, stabbing at an unfortunate leggy beastie of some kind that tried to flee past his foot. It wisnae right. Nae clan could do wi'oot a gonnagle. Or a Kelda, mind.

"So whit are we gonnae dae?" Soapy asked again.

Now, the most restrained of people dislikes being asked things over and over again and, to put it mildly, the Nac Mac Feegles are hardly the most patient of people; This can be seen in the fact that if they have no enemy to fight, they'll fight each other and if they don't have each other around to fight, they like to kick their own heads in to keep in practise.

Despite the trouble of the thinking that seemed to be important when you were a Big Man, Canny Big Hamish was not about to be one to break with tradition and, throughout the forest, strange and magical animals fled for cover as a brawling mass of red hair, wiry arms and legs and scabby wee kilts went tumbling through the undergrowth with a cacophony of battle cries.

"The tap o' the cart, ye cannae sing!"

"An' yer maw!"

"Ye'll tak' the high road an' I'll tak' yer wallet!"

"They may tak' oor lives, but they'll ne'er tak' oor troosers!"

Unfortunately, our band of heroes - while famed for their unbeatable battle strategy, also known as 'a face full o' heid' - they have yet to learn the importance of using one battle cry.

Only when most of the twenty-seven Feegles were scattered about the ground and the fight declared a unanimous draw did they notice that they were no longer alone in their patch of dark forest.

"Ho, Hamish! Dae ye see yon wee buggie things?"

"Aye, Yin-Eyed Mac," Canny Big Hamish replied, tugging his sword out of the tree trunk it was jammed in. He picked a piece of Big Tam's kilt off the blade, then looked at his brothers. "Whit dae ye think? Dae we want tae fight they wee buggies?"

One of said wee buggies made an angry clicking sound.

"Haud yer weesht, ye scunner!" Rab Sody yelled, waving an indignant fist, then realising Daft Wee Boab's hair was still clenched in it, released his brother. "Or ye'll get a face full o' heid! I'm warnin' ye, mind!"

The shadowy beastie did an impromptu dance over the fallen branches and logs, towards the challenging Feegle. Though it towered three Feegles higher than Rab Sody, he hefted a branch and cracked it between the eyes.

"He's cheekin' Rab!" Wee Daft Boab exclaimed. "The scunner cheeked Rab!"

While Wee Daft Boab might have been on the receiving end of many of the Clan's punches, this was different. The hairy-legged beastie had tried to pick a fight with one of the family and, while they did enjoy fighting amongst themselves, fighting _together_ was even better.

"Right!" Canny Big Hamish brandished his sword.

Unfortunately, apparently the buggie beastie thought the same way.

At least fifteen more buggie things appeared out of the shadows, each one with eight scraggy legs four times as long as a Feegle was tall and with dozens and dozens of glittering black eyes.

"Now, this is more like it!" Rab Sody crowed, punching his palm. "Even up the odds a wee bit, eh?"

The general consensus on the part of our band of heroes seemed to be that the more people or creatures or Feegles that you had to fight, the better it was, especially if you were outnumbered.

Then again, Feegle logic has never quite matched the logic of the rest of the world.

* * *

"There's an awfu' lot of wee bigjobs," Rab Sody grumbled.

"Shut yer gob," Canny Big Hamish growled at his brother, though he was thinking the same thing. Bigjobs were bad enough, but wee bigjobs poked around and noticed things that bigger bigjobs didn't.

The Feegles had found their way back to bright daylight after half a dozen fights and a stop for something to eat in the middle of the forest, which had, as always, lead to a bout of carousing. It was agreed by all, though, that a carouse wasn't right without a wee droppie of something to drink.

Now, they were merging into the camouflage of the long grass on the edge of the big, gloomy forest, adding red swathes to the dull green and yellow tufts, peering out at the hordes of wee bigjobs in long black coats.

"Oh waily waily waily..." the faint moan came from the back of the group.

"Whit noo?" Hamish demanded.

A tattooed arm pointed towards a wee hoose with a crooked roof and bendy walls, which stood only a Feegle's throw away from them, where a big bigjob was standing, surrounded by wee bigjobs.

Only, he wasn't just a big bigjob. He was a _big_, big bigjob.

"Are a' bigjobs that big or are we just gettin' wee-er?" Soapy inquired, edging a little closer to Canny Big Hamish. "Ah know we cid gie him a kickin' an' a', but he's canny big, Hamish..."

"Yer no' scared of a bigjob, are ye?" Canny Big Hamish said scathingly.

"No!" Soapy protested. "Ah... ah wuz just wonderin'..."

Sniggers abounded, Soapy's protestations rising in volume and temper, then the long grass started rustling and shaking wildly as if there was some kind of fraternal fist-fight going on in its depths.

Only when the group of wee bigjobs started scattering did a "Haud yer wheesht!" cease the battle, unrulier and muddier red hair slowly rising back up among the shrubs as fifty-three beady eyes peered out at the wee bigjobs.

"You did actually manage to finish your homework for transfiguration, didn't you?" one of them was saying, hefting a book into a large satchel which she had slung onto her shoulder.

"_They've got the book learnin'_..."

"_Ah see it, ye spivvy_..."

"_An' the wurds... did ye hear they big wurds she wuz usin'_..."

"_Ah'm no deaf, yet daft besoms..._"

"Er..." one of the two she was with said hopefully. He was tall, wearing scruffy clothes and best of all, he had hair to match any one of the clan. The Nac Mac Feegles eyed him. A bigjob with red hair was never a bad thing. Until he continued, "Well, I managed a foot of parchment..."

"_Waily waily! They puir trapped wurds_..."

"_Shut up, Wee Daft Boab_!"

"Ron, you are utterly hopeless."

"I didn't know what to write!" the Ron protested. "I mean, I know what the answer is, but how can you write more than six lines about how you can see the difference between a tea pot and an ant eater?"

"_He disnae waste wurds... guid wee bigjob, that_..."

The wee bigjob lassie made a quiet sound that didn't make it passed lips that were pressed together in a severe line, but didn't say anything, which the Feegles knew to be a bad sign.

"She knows what we're like, Hermione," the other lad said, wandering along beside them, grinning. He looked as scruffy as the first, which the clan of Feegles approved of immensely. "You're the smart one. Everyone knows that."

The girl made another muted indignant sound. "Well, if you fail your essays, then don't blame me!"

The two boys fell behind as the girl stalked off in a kelda-ish fashion, every stamp of her foot making the red-haired lad flinch. "She's right, isn't she?" he mumbled. "Old McGonagall is going to kill me."

"_Gonnagle_?"

"_Aye! That's whit he said_!"

"_D'ye think he'll have a kelda an' a clan wi' him?_"

"_Hush up, ye dafties_..."

"C'mon," the dark-haired laddie said, laughing. "We'd better get back to the castle or else we'll be for it anyway."

The mismatched, beady eyes rotated in the direction of the wee lass, a new and... well, yes, it really was a slightly unmissable object looming not too far away, standing on top of a magnificent cliff, towers scratching at the sky and bright windows winking in the daylight.

"_Ho, Hamish_," Wee Daft Boab whispered. "_Whaur did yon castle come frae_?"

"Ye didnae tak' heed of it afore, ye daft puddin'," Canny Big Hamish replied, in less of a whisper. "Richt, lads, we're gonnae hov tae follow they wee bigjobs up tae the big fancy hoose. If there's a gonnagle there, we're needin' tae find him."

"But Hamish," Lang Tam protested. "Ah ken we're canny fast, but it's an awfu' way and the grass isnae very lang."

Canny Big Hamish gave this due consideration, peering around from beneath bushy red brows. "We're gonnae hov tae hov somethin' tae dis-goo-eese oorselves wi'," he decided, in what he hoped was a decent Big Man voice.

"Like whit?" Rab Sody demanded.

Canny Big Hamish tried his best to look thoughtful, then pointed at a large object behind them. "That!" he said decisively. "They dinnae move, but they're a' over the place an' bigjobs nivver look to see whit they're daein'."

"We better find that gonnagle canny quick, Hamish," Yin-Eyed Mac murmured, awe-struck. "Ah dinnae think this plan should be forgotten and the gonnagle's the one tae remember it right."

The Big Man stuck out his chest proudly, hands on his hips, and grinned. Now, this was what bein' a Big Man was all about; havin' bright ideas and gettin' the lads to think ye were more than a spivvy. Aye, no' a bad wee job at a'.

* * *

Avoiding the stampedes of wee bigjob feet, the knot of Feegles were congregated behind a statue of a daft-lookin' bigjob, listening to the flurry of activity as it faded further down the hall.

It had taken a good deal of sneaking to get all the way up to the castle without being noticed and several of the Feegles still had leaves and twigs stuck in their hair. Not for any reason. Just because it did have a certain sense of style.

Only a while after they managed to get into the building, dis-goo-eased as natural foliage, they had heard an auld bigjob wi' a pussycat screeching in the hall, where they'd come into the castle.

He was wailyin' about someone leavin' mud, leaves, bushes and - Wee Daft Boab blushed purple when he heard the shout - an uprooted tree sapling lyin' around, which the Feegles - of course - didn't know a thing about.

"Which way, Hamish?" Black Rab, so-called for the appealing colour of his teeth, grinned in the darkness. All that showed up were his eyes and that wasn't really saying much for him.

The Big Man squinted this way and that. There were long halls spilling in every direction, staircases here, there and everywhere, not to mention the doors that lined walls already plastered with pitchers of people in daft clothes.

"Weel..." he began, almost sighed with relief when someone bellowed down at them; "Avaunt, villains! Stand fast and face me!"

The Feegles squinted around the hall with interest. It wasn't often that there was an eejit actually looking for a fight with them, but there was no one in sight. In every direction, the halls were deserted, touched only here and there by moonlight, which angled in nosily through tall windows.

"Wha said that?" Weeer-than-auld-wee-Jim Jim demanded, spinning around and looking for the owner of the voice.

"Aha! You dare not look up and face me! See how you tremble!"

"A' right!" Canny Big Hamish looked up. "Wha is that? Yer gonnae get sich a kickin' when we find ye!"

"Here, rapscallions!" the voice yelled triumphantly and they peered up in bewilderment at one of the pictures on the wall. Within it, there was a short, dumpy man wearing a tin suit with a feather in the hat and carrying and shield and sword, which he waved in what he seemed to think was a menacing manner.

"Have at you!"

"Hamish..." Auld Wullie muttered. "Is the pitcher talkin' tae us?"

"Aye... an' he's bein' a right scunner," Canny Big Hamish muttered back, squinting at the man. "Ah think he's one o' those wee nightie things... they used tae wear they funny tin suits, didn't they?"

There seemed to be communal agreement on this point, though one-hundred-percent of them would likely have agreed with anything Hamish said if it meant they could get back to the topic at hand; "So, we gonnae gie him a kickin' fer cheekin' us?"

"Hauld on," Hamish asserted the authority of Big Man. With a surprisingly easy leap, he had scrambled up the shelf that stood under the huge frame and was standing inches from the picture. The rest of his small clan followed. "Ho, you, in the pitcher."

"Me, villain?" squeaked the Knight waving his sword around so enthusiastically that he tipped over backwards and hastily scrambled upright again. "I shall strike you down, fiendish knaves!"

"Aye, an' yer maw..." muttered Soapy, cracking his knuckles.

"Aye, you," Hamish repeated, ignoring Soapy for the time being. "We're lookin' fur a gonnagle. Have ye seen yin?"

"A Gonagall, scurvy blaggard? Ha! From whither have you come to seek one?"

"Disnae matter," Hamish replied succinctly. "Where can we find one?"

The Knight bent down in the picture to peer at the Feegles, who had lined up on the shelf under the frame. "What manner of creatures are you, poxy rogues?"

"Ho! Who you callin' poxy?" Hairy Angus growled.

"Dae ye ken whit 'poxy' means, Angus?" Auld Wullie asked out the corner of his mouth.

"No," Hairy Angus replied, clenching his fists. "But it disnae sound nice."

Canny Big Hamish ignored this exchange as well, examining the painting with the eye of the trouble-maker. "We're the manner o' creatures that are gonnae gie ye sich a kickin' if ye dinnae stop bein' a cheeky scuggan," he said, then grinned, showing the gaps were several teeth were missing.

"Ha! I am not afraid of unchivalrous ruffians such as yourself!"

"Oh no?" Hamish said, the smile on his face enough to make any Feegle think twice about crossing him. "Lads, I think we need tae introduce Mister Nightie tae oor way of thinkin', eh?"

Twenty-seven right legs stuck out simultaneously and there was a synchronised gesture, almost like a wiggle of the feet, then the Feegles seemed to step forward, then vanished from the shelf.

And, only a short while later, the only sound in the quiet, deserted hall was the wail of a wee nightie and the noisy clang of armour being permanently dented.

* * *

Wriggling under the gap under the door, Canny Big Hamish surveyed the area. It was a bigjob wumman's room, from the look of things. And it looked like she was a smart one, this. There were books _everywhere_ and papers and writing things. It was enough to make him think about fleein'.

There were wurds captured and locked up in leather covers on bookshelves all along the walls. Whoever had the room even trapped wurds in frames and pinned them on the wall, the wurds of auld yins, long gone.

It was enough to give Canny Big Hamish the heebie-jeebies.

He shuddered, turning his attention to grabbing Wee Daft Boab by the lugs and hauling him from the gap under the door. While Wee Daft Boab was wee, he was that daft that he always got stuck wherever they were going.

One by one, the small troop managed to gather on the floor of the room, hesitating for only a second before scurrying around to find anything that might be useful or help them find the gonnagle they kept hearing about.

Papers were turned over, every drawer in the desk ransacked, every bottle on every shelf peered into, but there was no sign. Soapy even dared to slip into the bigjob's wee bathroom and found nothing but a large bar of pink, flowery soap, which he proceeded to chew on with great enjoyment.

Only when all corners of the main room had been examined did Canny Big Hamish give the order for a handful of Feegles to enter the bigjob's bedroom. It wasn't something he liked doing, because bigjobs could be funny about seeing wee blue men in their bedrooms in the middle of the night.

"Dae ye think the wee man in the tin suit was fibbin'?" Rab Sody asked from the top of the desk. "Ah cannae see any sign of any gonnagle here. There's no' even a set o' mousepipes anywhaur."

"I dinnae think the wee man wid want anither kickin', Rab," Canny Big Hamish said sternly, though he was wondering the same thing. After all, a gonnagle should be pleased to have a clan. It meant they had some reason for remembering all the terrible things they needed to know.

"A' that's here is a' the bed, some haggy claithes and wee stripy pussy cat," called Daft Wee Boab from am open doorway across the room. "An' a' it's doin' is watchin' Yin-Eyed Mac and Hairy Angus."

"Och, that's nothin'," Canny Big Hamish said. "A wee pussy and some..."

Haggy claithes.

_Haggy claithes!_

Canny Big Hamish ran across the room to Wee Daft Boab's side in time to see the grey tabby gracefully leap and catch Hairy Angus under its front paws, pinning him down on the floor.

"Nut it!" He heard Hairy Angus yell out and saw Yin-Eyed Mac leap at the wee cat's head. A paw smacked him out of the air and sent him skidding under the bed in a tangle of yarn and bootlaces.

Hairy Angus yelled again, kicking and biting at the paws, which - Canny Big Hamish stared - picked him up and then, the stripy wee pussy's head smacked against Hairy Angus's, hard enough to knock the Feegle onto the floor.

One of the cat's paws rose and touched its forehead, where an impressive lump was starting to appear under the fur, but it glared at Hairy Angus, who was staring at it in astonished shock.

"Hamish!" Wee Daft Boab squeaked frantically, grabbing Canny Big Hamish by the arm. "Hamish, did ye see whit yon pussy did?"

"Aye, Boab."

"I didnae ken pussies kent how tae gie a faceful o' heid!"

"Boab, stoap bletherin'."

"But it gied Angus a face full o' heid! Yon pussy gied Angus a..." Mercifully, Canny Big Hamish skelped Wee Daft Boab on the head before he said anything more. "Ah wiz just sayin..." Boab mumbled sulkily.

Canny Big Hamish could feel the other Feegles gathering behind him, to stare at the pussy who was still glaring down at the unfortunate Hairy Angus, who, more than anything, looked like he wanted his mammy. He could also hear the quiet, rose-scented hiccups of Soapy, several steps behind him.

"That's no' a normal pussy," he muttered, stepping back onto Rab Sody's feet when the green-eyed glare turned to him and the cat, which suddenly looked more terrible than a full-sized tiger, started prowling towards them. "We're in a hag's room..."

"Oh, waily waily waily..." Wee Daft Boab moaned, pulling his kilt up over his head.

The cat stopped dead and blinked, then craned its neck upwards, but the craning didn't stop there; it stretched right up, changing shape as it went, the shoulders getting wider and the paws changing into hands, the fur into a long robe.

The Feegles who dared to look found themselves greeted by the full force of a hag's stare when those green eyes - the pupil no longer slitted - directed themselves back down at the small army, who were too stunned to even move.

Long, black hair hung in a long braid down her back and - Hamish almost gasped - her claithes were all the proper colours of a kilt, the tartan calling for him to hack it up and make it into a new outfit for a kelda, when they found one.

"Put it away," she said. "It's not something I want to see in my bedroom, thank you very much." Wee Daft Boab peeped over the end of his kilt, then backed away. "The kilt, you silly wee man!"

"Daft," Wee Daft Boab corrected in a croaky voice, hands shaking on his kilt. "No' silly."

"Very well," the hag said, bearing down on them. "If that's language you will understand, drap yer kilt, ye daft wee scunner. Ah dinnae want tae see yer bits and pieces in mah bedroom, richt?"

"Hamish!" Wee Daft Boab's voice was a raw squeak, his kilt still held up to his eyes, which were staring wildly at the hag. "Hamish... she wis a wee pussy and noo, she's a hag an' she's speakin' like a kelda..."

Canny Big Hamish reached out and tugged Boab's kilt back down to a level of decency acceptable to even the most prudish of bigjobs. "Shut yer face," he whispered urgently. "Ye dinnae want tae annoy a hag."

The sound of the hag clearing her throat drew fifty-three eyes look back up at her. "I might seem unreasonable in asking," she said, a steely gleam in her eye. "But what are you and why are you in my bedroom?"

Half a dozen hands pushed Canny Big Hamish forward none too gently, the Big Man suddenly wondering if anyone would mind taking over his position in the Clan as it really wisnae what he wanted to do wi' the rest o' his life.

The hag crossed her arms, that formidable glare settling on Canny Big Hamish, who shuffled his feet and attempted to hide his sword behind his back, while the rest of the Clan attempted to make themselves as small and unnoticeable as it was for wee blue men with bright red hair to be.

"Well?"

"Ah... er... we... we wiz lookin' fur a gonnagle," he mumbled, smoothing down his braided beard. A dark eyebrow lifted over those terrifying green eyes. "Fur... fur oor wee clan... we lost the rest o' us in the new world, so we need tae find a gonnagle an'... an' a kelda..."

"Aye... a gonnagle an' Kelda..." the communal mumble rose from the pack behind him, a chorus of foot-shuffling, sword-clinking and kilt-rustling adding a nice ambient effect to it all. "For the Clan."

"A Gonagall?"

"A-aye," Canny Big Hamish mumbled. "We heard the wee bigjobs talkin' aboot a gonnagle when we came oot o' yon forest... they said there wuz a gonnagle waitin' in the wee castle and they were gonnae be in trouble... we asked a man in a tin suit in a pitcher an' he said the gonnagle wuz here..."

"A pitcher?"

"Aye," Wee Daft Boab piped up, peering nervously over Canny Big Hamish's shoulder. "One o' they pitchers on the wall! The wee man in the tin suit wuz askin' for a kickin'..." He trailed off as the hag nodded, as if something had been explained that they hadn't realised.

"You're the ones who attacked Sir Cadogan," she said. "Though it does beg the question of how you got into the paintings." She studied them. "And, it seems that you're looking for me."

"Eh?"

The hag smiled slowly, in a way that made all twenty-seven Feegle men back away several steps. "I am McGonagall," she said. "And I would appreciate it if you would explain what you are."

Anxious looks darted amongst the Feegles.

"We cannae tell her, Hamish," Rab Sody hissed, wringing his hands. "If she's a hag and she disnae ken aboot us, we cannae tell her."

"Did you no' hear her, ye daft spivvy?" Soapy argued around the bubbles that were flowing down and matting his beard. "She's a hag and she's called a Mac Gonagall, yin o' the auld names... she speaks like a hag and a kelda and she wears the colours..."

"Yer sayin' she's a kelda?" Canny Big Hamish went a strange shade of turquoise, paling under his tattoos and woad. "Ah've found us a bigjob hag for a kelda?"

Rab Sody smiled nastily. "Conratilashins, Hamish," he said. "Always knew you'd be a grand Big Man and now, ye have a grand bigjob kelda."

"Ahem?"

Before they could flee, a hand reached down and caught Canny Big Hamish - who squeaked in panic - around the middle and lifted him up to eye level. The tiger was there in those eyes, burning brightly.

"What," she said in a tone that brooked no refusal. "Are you?"

"N-N-Nac Mac Feegles, yer haginess..." Canny Big Hamish babbled. Something in those eyes made it impossible to look away or lie. "The Wee Free Men..."

"Nae King! Nae Quin..." Hairy Angus silenced Daft Wee Boab with a fist in the gob.

"I've never heard of you," she said with some authority of one with book-learning who has discovered something new and far too interesting for the something-in-question's liking. "I expect you're some kind of gnomes or pixies or something?"

"Aye... aye, we're Pictsies," Canny Big Hamish corrected, hoping that if he placated her with what answers he had, they might flee back to the forest and spend some more time kicking in the heads of the wee spider beasties.

Somehow, it sounded nicer than being stuck with a hag like this one.

Green eyes regarded him, glittering. "And a Gonagall is?"

"Oor... oor Clan's all have yin..." The other Feegles nodded in agreement. "Th-they remember the auld stories an' things Feegles o' auld hae did... an' they sing songs an' use wurds."

"They're bards?"

"A-aye... an' battle-poets..."

"Battle-poets?"

"They scare fowk aff wi' wurds... terrrrrible things, wurds..."

"Words... poems..." the hag said flatly, staring at the nervous Pictsie held in a bony hand. "Words like these ones; 'the man that gets drunk is little more than a fool and is in the habit, no doubt, of advocating home rule'?"

A Feegle sword achieved the same effect as a pin dropping.

"Crivvens..." Rab Sody croaked in horror. "That wiz terrible... no' likin' drinkin'... that's a crime... but makin' a wee poem aboot it... Hamish... she's a true gonnagle, if she can use wurds as bad as a' that."

"Thank you for the compliment," the McGonagall said sourly.

"Ye dinnae unnerstand," Canny Big Hamish hastened to intervene. "Yer a hag, but ye have the manner o' a kelda, but ye can speak like a gonnagle... ah havenae ever seen ony bigjob that can dae any o' those things..."

"Obviously, you've never heard of my great grandfather, then," the McGonagall said, though she didn't looked pleased to be admitting it. "William McGonagall. He's famous for being the worst poet in known memory."

"Waily waily waily!" Again, Wee Daft Boab broke the silence. "Ye've only gone and found us a Mac Gonagall Clan, Hamish! Ye can hov only yin!" he exclaimed in despair, oblivious to the frost that seemed to be crystallising on the McGonagall's still features, her lips a narrow, deadly line. "And they have hags an' a'! Oh, waily waily waily!"

"Wee Daft Boab!" Canny Big Hamish snarled out. "When Ah get doon there, Ah'm gonnae batter ye, ye daft scunner." He lowered his voice to caution his brother, below the hag's hearing. "Ye _dinnae_ insult a hag! Hags have terrible tempers, ye ken!"

"Would you mind not calling me that?" the McGonagall said in glacial tones.

"Er... whit, yer hagginess?"

Green eyes narrowed to little more than slits, yet still managed to promise a world and old world of pain. "I am not a _hag_, Feegle."

"It… it's whit we call yer kind," Canny Big Hamish squeaked frantically. "There's nae disrespect meant, yer hagginess…" He clutched at a small bird's bone that hung against his chest, twisted into his beard. "An' ye must be canny powerfu' an' a'… Ah've niver seed a hag that can turn into a wee pussy afore…"

"I could turn you into a frog, if that would assure you that I am the same as any other _witch_," she suggested frostily.

"Waily waily waily!" Wee Daft Boab howled, flinging himself at her ankle and banging his forehead against her shin in despair. "No' the Big Man, yer Hagginess! Dinnae dae anythin' tae the Big Man!"

The hag groaned, shaking Wee Daft Boab off her ankle to save herself from the impending bruising. "Fine," she said wearily, glancing at the clock that ticked noisily on the wall. Stooping, she placed Canny Big Hamish back amongst his brothers. "Wait by the mantle, will you? I think I need – and deserve – a drink of some kind."

Directing the small Clan towards the open mantle, where some charred logs still smouldered a dull orange, the Big Man took in the uncertain faces of his brothers as they waded through the shag rug.

"Whit dae we dae noo?" Soapy asked in a mumble, hoisting himself up to sit on the edge of the fireplace.

"Weel, the hag telt us tae stay here," Canny Big Hamish said, glancing over at the bigjob. She was raking through the drawers and looked pleased when she found herself a bottle that looked very tempting to the Big Man. A splash was poured into a glass, which she downed at once, her hand shaking. "She looks canny cauld…"

All eyes turned to the fire.

"It isnae very guid, no' at a', Canny Big Hamish," Auld Wullie said, shaking his grey head mournfully. "The bigjob hag'll no' be weel wi' a wee fire like this… nae wunner she's no' very happy..."

There was a blurring of the air, then the flames leapt up, roaring and engulfing the fresh logs, filling the room with a warming light and making the hag at the desk jump and slitter some of that precious amber liquid onto her tartan dressing gown.

Rising from the desk, she approached the fire and the knot of Feegles standing apprehensively at her feet, staring up at her.

"Did you… do that?" she asked faintly.

"Er… aye…" Canny Big Hamish scuffed his feet, almost losing them in the jungle of the rug. "Ye looked a' cauld and it wisnae very big an' we wuz thinkin' that if we gied ye some help, ye…" It's amazing how pitiable a grown Feegle can look, when he's trying to keep out of trouble. "Ye widnae be ragin' on us…"

The hag's mouth became nothing more than a thin line, but there was a gleam in her eye as she took the seat by the fire and looked down at them. "So, Mr…?" she started, then frowned. "What did you say you were called?"

"Nac Mac Feegles, yer Hagginess," Canny Big Hamish said immediately, feeling a little more at ease now that the hag had been calmed and placated by a warm fire and a strong drink. "I'm the Big Man, Canny Big Hamish Mac Feegle." His eyes remained fixed on the glass in her hand. "A Feegle..."

The hag nodded, clearly aware of what he was watching, and swirled the remains of her drink in the glass. "Have you come far to get here?"

"No' really," the Feegle replied, leaning on his recovered sword. "We were in the land o' the deid, then we came back tae life… an' its better than ah thought it wuz gonnae be."

"Back from the land of the dead?"

"Aye. We cam' back alive in the wee forest… didnae think we'd be getting' tae fight ony more, neither," He beamed up at her. "We wuz thinkin' we'd hov borin' jobs in offices an' things…"

The McGonagall studied her glass intently. "I'm sitting in my room, in nothing but my nightwear, drinking my father's Firewhisky and talking to a group of pixi… sorry, Pictsies…" she murmured. "Is there no such thing as a normal day?"

"Eh?"

"Oh," Sitting up, she leaned forward to smile down on them. "I'm being a terrible hostess. Have you and your… fellow Mac Feegles eaten, Mr Mac Feegle? Or had anything to drink?"

"D'ye have any mair licker?" Wee Daft Boab asked eagerly, only to shy back from the piercing glare, which suggested that, even if she was drinking some, they most certainly would not be.

"Mr Mac Feegle?" The question was directed at Canny Big Hamish, though her gaze remained, searing Wee Daft Boab like a laser, making the unfortunate Feegle squirm, mumblings of "Waily waily waily" barely audible as he twisted his kilt around his fists. "Have you eaten?"

Canny Big Hamish's smile faltered. "Well, there were some beasties in the woody-place," he offered carefully. After all, if there was a hag in front of them who could turn hersel' into a wee pussy, who wuz tae say there wisnae anither hag turnin' hersel' intae somethin' else in the forest?

"Beasties?"

"We didnae try tae eat ony o' they horsey-bigjob-things!" Wee Daft Boab exclaimed hastily. "We thought they wuz ships cus of their grand big feets, but they werenae… they were right wee scuggans, though!"

"Aye!" Not-sae-wee-fancy Eck agreed with disgust. "Nae manners at a'!"

"Wait a moment," the McGonagall said. "What do you mean horsey-bigjobs? You don't mean the centaurs…?" Fifty-three beady eyes looked blankly up at her. "Did they have horse bodies with human… bigjob parts?"

"Aye!" Auld Wullie said. "Wun o' them tried tae stamp on Medium-sized Alfie wi'oot sae much as a by yer leave!" He shook his head. "Tisnae richt fur a horsey-bigjob tae be sae rude. If any yin o' us were like that, oor maw would gie us sich a skelpin'…"

Canny Big Hamish nodded, grinning up at the hag. "We learnt him an' a' his mates right enough no' tae cheek a Feegle," he said cheerfully. "Thon daft scunners willnae try onythin' wi' a Pictsie again."

"You… learnt him?" the hag said weakly. "You picked a fight with the centaurs of the Forbidden forest?"

"And they wee spidery-hings!" Soapy said, shoving Wee Daft Boab out of the way, determined to get a word in on impressing the hag. "They hov a lot o' legs and we still beat the spivvies!"

"Spidery-things?" McGonagall echoed.

"And there wuz yin of them ponies with the spiky heid," Wee Daft Boab pushed his way back to the front. "One o' they uny-corny hingies! We didnae eat it, but it's most like the Quin's horsey an' she likely wants it back…"

"Quin?"

"Oh bugger," Wee Daft Boab ducked from a dozen fists.

The steely glare was back in McGonagall's eye. "What does he mean 'Quin'?"

Canny Big Hamish climbed onto the fireplace, sitting with his feet dangling inches above the heart rug. "The Quin of the fairies," he muttered half-heartedly. "I dinnae ken why ye hae yin o' her uny-corny's, but if ye dae, the Quin'll be comin'..."

"If you know about all this, are you some kind of bizarre fairies?" the McGonagall asked suspiciously.

Despite the fact that she was a hag and despite the fact she was a Mac Gonagall, half a dozen Feegles had to be forcibly restrained by their brethren at the 'F' word. Even Canny Big Hamish glared at her.

"We're no' Fairies, yer hagginess," he growled. "We dinnae flee aboot wee flooers wi' wee shiny wings an' things."

"Any more than I'm a _hag_, you little fairy," McGonagall countered, her patience wearing thin. "You call me what you like and I will do the same for you and we shall say no more of it, are we clear?"

Canny Big Hamish was impressed. Very few bigjobs, or hags for that matter, had the nerve to talk straight with a Feegle and be as angry as the Feegles themselves, but - he supposed - this was a Hag of the Mac Gonagall line, who could speak like a kelda and think like a Feegle.

"Aye," he acceded grudgingly. "Aye, right. We'll no say any more."

"But Hamish..."

"Soapy, Ah dinnae think we're wantin' tae get on the wrang side o' this hag."

On her chair, McGonagall smiled like a kelda. "Do we have an understanding, Mr Mac Feegle?"

Canny Big Hamish nodded slowly. "Aye, Mistress Mac Gonagall."

McGonagall then rose to her feet, stepping carefully over the Feegles and returned to her desk, collecting the bottle of her father's Firewhisky and her wand. Her glass, she left on the surface.

Transfiguring a shallow bowl from a poker, she tipped half the remaining whisky into it, drawing a longing sigh from the small mass of red hair that had gathered around it, then summoned the remnants of her evening gammon sandwich, which she had kept in case of late-night marking.

"So," she said, sitting back in her seat, folding her hands together intricately in her lap, as gentle and meek as a maternal Hungarian Horntail. "Tell me about this Quin, Mr Mac Feegle."

* * *

"So you suspect this Queen of the Fairies might be using our forest as a way to access our world?"

The Feegles glared mutinously at the wizard. Hags were one matter, but when daft old buggers with a lot of hair and fancy, poncy dresses started asking daft questions about what he'd just been told, it was a whole different stomach of offal.

The wizard looked up at Mistress McGonagall with a good-natured smile. "Minerva, my dear, it seems your friends do not wish to talk to me."

McGonagall sighed, rubbing her forehead with one hand. "I explained as best I could Albus," she said. "And I doubt they can tell us anything more clearly. Unicorns are apparently one of her choice pets and they seldom appear anywhere, unless the walls between the land of the Fairies and our world break down."

At present, they were gathered in the so-called Head-Master's office, the Feegles standing, a small, yet forbidding force, on the patchwork hearth rug, while the witch and the wizard sat on opposite sides of it.

Every one of the Feegles had been horrified when they were informed that not only were they now tied to a hag with the learnin', who came from the Clan of Mac Gonagall, but they were in a school for wee hags and wizards an' all.

It had taken the promise of McGonagall that their names wouldn't be written down to get them to agree to leave her room and come with her to the office of the man she claimed was in charge.

The daft old scunner was wearin' about fifteen layers o' clothin', Medium-sized Alfie had noticed cynically, but Auld Wullie had said that when ye get tae a certain age, ye start tae feel the chill a wee bit. Aye, Alfie had agreed, but that didnae gie ye reason tae wear stars and flooers like a wee lassie.

This seemed to be the general consensus of the rest of the group as well, which is why Dumbledore – clad in robes of generous colours and patterns – found himself under the glare of fifty-three eyes belonging to tiny men wearing nothing more than fragmentary kilts that barely covered anything.

"Well, I expect there must be some mistake," the wizard said. Fifty-four eyebrows pulled down darkly. Dumbledore smiled placatingly. "I fear that your concerns are in vain. Unicorns have been living in these lands for centuries."

"They're the Quin's beasties," Canny Big Hamish growled. "If ye hov them here, its cus the Quin has been here."

"Maybe in the past, yes," the wizard agreed. "But why would she come back?"

Wee Daft Boab rolled his eyes. "Even I ken why!" he exclaimed, to looks of genuine surprise from his brothers. "The Quin likes tae hov new toys tae play wi'… toys she cannae make herself." The Feegles backed away from Boab, worried by this sudden display of intelligence. "Like tatties!"

A communal sigh of relief ruffled the frayed edge of the carpet.

"So she would take some things back to her world? I see no harm in…"

"Of course, ye dinnae see, ye daft puddin'!" Canny Big Hamish yelled angrily, waving his fists. "She disnae tak' wee things like Boab said! She like tae tak' people. She likes tae keep them as her wee pets, but she disnae know how they work and they gae daft or they dee."

"Minerva…?"

"She steals humans for entertainment, but is incapable of keeping them. They either go insane or die," McGonagall translated, folding her arms over her chest.

"Or baith," Rab Sody added. "It isnae a guid place for normal bigjobs tae be."

Dumbledore regarded the Pictsies for a few moments, then asked, "Where would she be able to come into this world?"

Bemused looks were exchanged, then Canny Big Hamish said, "She likes magic places and stuff… dae ye have ony canny big staines all standin' up in a wee circle? She likes wee circles does the Quin."

"Only Stonehenge and a few further North," Dumbledore said, rubbing the crooked bend in his nose. "How would you know when she is coming?"

Again, wary looks were exchanged.

"The grass lies doon in a circle."

"Ah." There was a strange satisfaction in those words. "You say this Queen gives people precisely what they imagine and wish for? And while they are in her possession, they are on a different plane of time?" The Feegles performed a Mexican nod, red hair waving wildly. "That certainly explains a great deal about the crop circles in America and the so-called alien abductions, then."

"What do you mean, Albus?"

The wizard leaned back in his chair with a small smile. "You recall that many abductees claim to be taken up in a ship and tested on?" Minerva nodded. "That is what is expected – that is what people _believe_ should happen, therefore that is the wish which is granted when they fall prey to this Queen. Then, sometimes you find they come back years older or still young…"

"Because they have been on the Fairyland plane of existence?" McGonagall suggested, staring at him in astonishment.

The old wizard smiled placidly. "It appears that our Colonial brethren were, once more, looking in the wrong direction for their enemy. It was not space that the threat came from, but the cultural past." He gazed up at the ceiling, lost in happy thought. "Many people on these islands have long-since ceased to believe in the power of fairies. We are terribly cynical for the most part, though there are occasional, rare exceptions but I fear that a majority of Americans are prone to believe most anything they are told or, more specifically, what they are not told."

There was a long silence. Minerva stared at her one-time teacher and mentor with awe, seeing how simply he had connected the situations and how very obvious it now seemed. A fist knocked on the top of her slipper and she looked down at Canny Big Hamish.

"Whit did the bigjob say?" he asked in a mutter. "I didnae unnerstand all they wurds."

Glancing back up at Albus, who was watching the patterns cast by the flames on the ceiling, she shook her head and replied, "He knows where the Quin has been in our world and he's right. She won't come near here anymore; if someone offered us whatever we desired without question, we would ask what the catch is and even if we were told there was no catch, we'd still say it was too good to be true and walk away."

"Even if ye wuz offered everythin' ye wanted?"

"Especially then," the witch said, trying not to laugh at the simplicity of stubborn, old-fashioned British logic. "If you're given something free of charge, you want to know how much it'll cost you in the long run."

"But her wee uny-cornys are here…"

Minerva nodded. "They probably came with her, when she still had control here," she said. "When the stone circles still had a lot of power. They live wild now and have done for years."

"So they… arenae the Quin's beasties any mair?"

"Not in this country, at least," Dumbledore spoke to the ceiling. "While there are occasional incidents of crop-circles, they have been becoming fewer and further between, because so few people honestly given them consideration anymore, on this side of the Atlantic."

"Side of whut?"

"It's the sea that separates us from another country, where it appears this Queen of yours may have quite a hold." Dumbledore's gaze drifted back down from the ceiling as slowly as tumbling feathers on the breeze.

The Feegles huddled together, talking in heated mutters about something that neither had nor wizard could hear, then Canny Big Hamish looked up at them. "Ye say the Quin disnae come here onymair?"

"So it would seem."

"She had a bigjob frae here, though, frae the land o' the livin', tae put the fear intae us," The Feegle hesitated before speaking. "I dinnae ken how long she's had him, but it's bin a canny lang time, if she hasnae been here in years..."

"What? Wh..."

"Minerva," Dumbledore motioned for her to be silent for a moment, then leaned down to speak to the Feegles directly. "Why would she want to frighten you?"

Canny Big Hamish shuffled his feet. "So we kent that she had the power in the land o' the livin' an' a'... so we'd ken that even if we cam' back tae life, she wid still be able tae find us." The hesitancy gave way to a broken-toothed grin. "I dinnae think she'd want tae try tae hov us on her side any mair noo, though..."

"So she took someone from the land of the living."

"Aye."

"And never returned him?"

"Aye."

Blue eyes, shrewder than many gave them credit for, gazed down on the army of little men. "Do you happen to remember who this person was and what he desired that he was drawn into her hold?"

Again, the mass of red hair on the rug congregated, the mutterings louder and more vehement than they had been before. Several brief scuffles broke out, voices rising, then Canny Big Hamish pushed his way out from beneath a tangle of arms, legs and matted hair.

"It wuz a wizardy bigjob," the Big Man said. "He wuz at the places where the staines stand up, wavin' a wee stick about and shoutin' about the old magic an' someyin ca'ed Quin Mab. Oor Quin heard him an' answered him an' made us watch... her in oor land o' the livin'."

There was a communal groan at the very thought of it.

Canny Big Hamish bowed under the pressure of superstitious dramatic tension and paused for a moment, then continued, "He said he wuz the most powerful yin. He said they didnae ken whit they were daein' when they booted him oot o' their castle and somethin' aboot mixin' blood and mud an' somethin' else... he wanted tae hov the power tae show them the right way o' daein' things... the Quin gave it tae him."

"But only in fairyland?"

"Aye..."

"And he's still there?"

"Aye."

Dumbledore turned a serene look to McGonagall. "I believe we have finally resolved a somewhat blank spot in the history books about what Salazar Slytherin did after departing from Hogwarts," he said.

"You can't be serious, Albus..."

The Head Master tilted his head. "You heard their observations, Minerva. Do these charming Pictsies seem like the type who would lie to you, when it came to matters of import, such as this Queen and the land of the Living?"

The Feegles looked around in bewilderment, searching for the apparently 'charming' people that were somewhere hereabouts.

Above them, Minerva smiled faintly. "Well, it certainly is an explanation and I do rather prefer it to that good, old theory that he was abducted by aliens and presently rules in Uranus." She frowned suddenly. "If he's still alive, surely he would want to return to finish what he began?"

"Aye..." Canny Big Hamish said from by her big toe. "But there's the thing, yer hagginess... this isnae the wurld he knew anymair. He wanted tae change his wurld, but noo, his wurld has changed wi'oot him. He disnae want tae leave Fairyland, because he disnae belong here any mair."

"He doesn't belong there, either," she countered.

"Aye, Mistress," the Feegle agreed. "But sometimes, it better tae be where you don't belong, than go back to somewhere ye once did, but don't any longer. He'll remember this place, but it willnae remember him... it's enough tae make a man mad, that."

"But... he has what he wants and is still alive? And is as happy as he could be, given what has happened?"

The Feegles nodded en masse. It was like watching a field of scarlet wheat swaying in the breeze.

"If only You-Know-Who was as easy to be rid of," McGonagall sighed, shaking her head. "He is that man's descendant," she explained for the Feegles. "And he's even more insane than Slytherin was himself."

"Ah, the Quin would have hated him then," Rab Sody said seriously. "She likes her pets tae be... interestin', but yon bigjob she nabbed tried to tak' o'er Fairyland and she wisnae best pleased. He couldnae dae it, but he tried and he keeps on daein' it, but naeone can tak' o'er Fairyland. The Quin is tae powerful."

Dumbledore was studying the flames. "If we could somehow spirit Voldemort into Fairyland, away from all the harm he is doing here, give him the power he wants and let him challenge the Queen instead of us, it would be wonderfully convenient."

"Ye say this Voldimorty is as bad as thon bigjob wizard?"

"Worse," Dumbledore said innocent. "He wants to rule the magical world."

"Wants to rule it worse than the ither wizard?" Rab piped up excitedly.

Dumbledore's fingertips came together in an attitude of prayer. "Much," he said simply, then sighed. Minerva was staring at him warily. As did anyone else who saw Albus playing the innocent for too long. "Alas, that the Queen no longer haunts these shores, else she could have taken him off our hands."

The Feegles rushed into a knot so quickly that several were knocked backwards by the force of it, the gabble of voices rising with excitement, enthusiasm and fists flying, as seemed to be necessary at any Feegle business meeting.

"Albus, what do you think you are you doing?" Minerva hissed, leaning towards the Head Master. "Surely, you don't think getting rid of Voldemort could possibly be as easy as that."

His expression was as innocent as a cat with the canary feathers stuck between its teeth. "I don't know what you mean, dear lady," he said serenely. "I am merely thinking out loud..."

"In front of creatures who take spoken thoughts at face value, Albus!" Her voice, though lowered, was pitched with indignation. "Surely, you don't expect these wee men to actually do..."

"Ahem?" Both of them looked down at Canny Big Hamish, who was smiling in a way that would have looked more natural on a hungry sabre-toothed tiger. "We've disgust it in a comma-teah."

"Oh no... no..." McGonagall groaned, sinking back in her seat.

"If ye ken whaur we can find this Voldie-mortey," Hamish continued, looking very proud of himself and his brothers. "We can take him tae the Quin's land as a present tae... er... whit's the wurd...? When ye want a person tae think ye didnae mean to kick their heids in?"

"Apologise?"

"Aye!" Hamish threw a fist in the air, beaming up at Dumbledore. "We'll mak' the bigjob oor present tae her tae apoly-jize and then, we'll offski and leave her tae deal wi' him and auld bigjob."

"This is impossible. Utterly impossible," Mistress McGonagall's plaintive moans into her hands were going entirely unnoticed by Feegle and Wizard. "I cannot believe you would even consider such a thing..."

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore continued to speak down to the milling Feegles quite cheerfully. "I fear that Voldemort is impossible to find. There are magics protecting him unlike anything we can breach."

"Whit did he say?"

"They cannae find the Voldiemorty man."

"They cannae? Ah thought he wiz a wizard..."

"Aye, but the Voldiemorty man is an' a' an' can hide frae them..."

There was a lowering of voices at the red-haired mass on the carpet huddled together again with punctuations of "Aye, but...", "och, yer talkin' oot yer arse!" and other charmingly ethnic phrases.

Slowly, Canny Big Hamish turned back to the wizard. "We'd be stealin' the scunner, richt?"

"I suppose you would do whatever you had to do," Dumbledore was watching the fire with deep interest. "Alas, that we cannot get to the place where he is hidden. Though nearly every building in the wizarding world is connected, we cannot reach some of them."

"Aye, but we'd be stealin' frae yin o' those hooses..."

The old wizard's expression was entirely neutral and he looked away, examining one of the many paintings lining the walls of the office. Dozens of witches and wizards looked back curiously.

"Ye said all the hooses are connected?"

"I did indeed."

"Albus..."

"Whit aboot the pitchers?"

Dumbledore blinked naively. "Most likely, Mr. Mac Feegle."

"An' he'd have bigjobs fur us tae fight?"

"Indeed, he is well protected both by magic and people."

"Weel, if we're talkin' aboot stealin' and fightin', there's naethin' we cannae filch and naethin' we cannae kick the stuffin' oot of."

"This is ridiculous!" McGonagall exclaimed. "Even if you could find some way to slip under Voldemort's wards, do you honestly think you would be able to just... oh, I don't know... pick him up and walk away with him?"

The Feegles blinked at her.

"Aye?" offered Canny Big Hamish, giving her a bewildered look.

"And I suppose you would just walk straight into fairyland out of thin air?"

"Ah..." The Feegle caught up with what was causing the trouble. "No. We couldnae just dae it right off." The witch gave him a look that suggested she knew it couldn't possibly be that easy. The Feegle, however, gave her a look that suggested she didn't have nearly enough imagination. "We'd hov tae find the door first, _then _we nab the scuggan and offski wi' him."

"The door...?"

"Aye," Canny Big Hamish looked awfully proud of the fact he knew more than some book-learned hag. "Ye ken whit a door is, right? Yin o' those things tae get in and oot of places?" McGonagall looked like she would very much like to stamp on him. "Ye show us the door and we'll get rid o' yer wee Voldiemorty man fur ye."

"Albus..." The witch turned imploringly to Dumbledore, who was smiling amiably at a crack in the ceiling.

"I doubt they will listen to me if I tell them not to go looking for trouble," the wizard said, tapping his fingertips together.

The witch glared at him briefly, then looked down at the gathered horde. Twenty-seven eager faces stared back up at her, like a mass of hopeful, scarred and broken-nosed children waiting to hear if they can go to the park after all.

"I'm a Gonnagle, aren't I?"

"Aye, Mistress Mac Gonagall."

"And a... hag?"

"Aye, indeed!"

She narrowed formidable eyes at them, standing up and folding her arms imperiously over her less than generous bosom. "And if I tell you not to do this... this mad thing, will you listen to me?"

There was a quick shuffle and discussion, during which Auld Wullie seemed to be doing an awful lot of urgent whispering and gesturing. "Aye, Mistress, we'll listen tae ye," Canny Big Hamish said solemnly. "We always listen tae whit a hag says."

"Oh, good..." McGonagall sighed, sitting back into her seat. "It would be dangerous and near suicidal to even think about facing You Know..." Dumbledore lofted a bushy eyebrow. "Voldemort and his supporters."

"Aye..." Canny Big Hamish said, nodding gravely. "It would be daft."

"An' dangerous," Auld Wullie added seriously.

"An' messy..." Soapy was grinning, though desperately trying to hide it.

Canny Big Hamish's eyes darted around the room, most especially paying attention to the people moving about in the pictures on the walls. "Well, we'll be offski for now..." he said, with a nod to his brothers. "Dinnae want tae keep ye up any longer."

There was a group foot wiggle and the Feegles stepped forward and vanished, only to reappear in the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, who looked rather disconcerted by the sudden invasion. "Oh marvellous..."

"What are you doing!" McGonagall exclaimed, leaping to her feet.

Canny Big Hamish grinned broadly at her from inside the canvas, hefting his sword down off his back. "We did listen tae ye, Mistress," he replied, bowing. "But then, we didnae actually _say_ we'd dae whit ye said."

The witch opened her mouth to protest, but the Feegles, armed and ready, charged off through the pictures, their voices ringing back through every painting in the castle and growing fainter and fainter as they ran;

"Up yer trakkans!"

"Hae a facefu' o' heid!"

"Gissa smacker!"

"They may tak' oor lives, but they willnae tak' oor troosers!"

When the cries of the Feegles and the squeals of fright and surprise from the other paintings fell silent, McGonagall turned a pointed look on Dumbledore so sharp that could have skewered a wild boar. "Albus..."

The old wizard his hands innocently. "They seemed to be looking forward to it," he said, his beard rippling as if he might be smiling beneath it. "And they did seem to want us to get some rest, Minerva."

Professor McGonagall huffed out a frustrated breath. "Oh, shut up, Albus," she snapped, stalking towards the door. "Those silly little creatures are all going to get themselves killed and all in the hopeless effort to get rid of Voldemort!"

"You really are quite the optimist, Minerva," Dumbledore said mildly. "You do recall they said they easily defeated the acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest, not to mention the severe denting that Sir Cadogan suffered."

McGonagall made a sound that only very angry women are capable of and, wisely, years of experience cautioned Dumbledore that remaining silent would probably be the safest option at this juncture.

The witch gave him one more look and then slammed the door firmly behind her, her dressing gown swishing angrily around her legs as she stalked off.

Leaning against the gilt frame of his painting, Phineas Nigellus wiggled the tip of his little finger in his right ear thoughtfully, peering in the direction of the vanishing horde. "Well," he observed dryly to no one in particular. "It's not every day that you see a midget army of Scottish Weasleys."

* * *

What came to pass was a mystery.

Why dozens of Death Eaters suddenly rushed into the Ministry of Magic, apparently bruised and beaten, throwing down their wands and begging to be arrested and locked up in Azkaban or somewhere even further away was quite beyond understanding.

Why Lucius Malfoy had fled, screaming, when he had seen one of the Weasleys from a distance, no one could say. He was later found, gibbering quietly, under Cornelius Fudge's desk.

Why the Lestranges had taken to rocking in any corners that were small and dark and places where they might be unnoticed and mumbling "Face full of head, face full of head" no one dared to explain.

Why Macnair sat, numbly staring at his once-massive and imposing executioner's axe, its head splintered into dozens of pieces and the handle bent, even the most imaginative person couldn't begin to guess.

Dumbledore had arrived at the Ministry several days later, the expression of careful innocence he always wore firmly in place on his face. Of course, he had _no_ idea what had happened, nor who could have dared to defeat You-Know-Who without boasting about it afterwards.

Did he have any thoughts on what could have instigated such terror in the Death Eaters? Well... had the Ministry considered the possibility of little blue men? Surely he meant little green men? Oh no, most assuredly blue.

Subtle nods and winks were exchanged. Of course, he had no idea. Dumbledore never had any idea at _all_. Good chap, Dumbledore. Very modest about his dealings in the whole affair.

So, smiling serenely, he had departed, still wearing the little innocent smile that said everything and nothing, returning to Hogwarts, to a celebration party to outdo all celebration parties.

And later that evening, Minerva McGonagall made their way down to the Forbidden Forest. Saying thank you loudly enough for even the centaurs to hear, she left a fine crate of Firewhisky propped amongst the roots of the trees with a promise of more to come, then turned and started back to the castle.

Behind them, there was the clink of bottles and she glanced back. The crate was a fading speck in the distance, disappearing into the depths of the forest. However, a flash of red hair was visible over a tree root.

"A great battle then, Mr Mac Feegle," she murmured.

Canny Big Hamish emerged from the roots, grinning. "No' bad," he said, hands on his hips, looking proud of himself. "The Voldiemorty man wiz easy tae find. He wuz sittin' on a fancy chair and bossin' everybody aroond. We knocked him on the heid, tied him up wi' a pretty bow an' left him sittin' fur the Quin."

"Will he be able to get back?"

Canny Big Hamish scratched his nose. "I think she'll let him stay for a wee while, cos she hasnae had ony new toys for a while, but by the time she wants rid o' him, he willnae want tae come back. It'll be like a day or twa tae him there, likely enough, but it could be thoosands of years here."

"And what of the other wizard?"

"That Slythery manny?"

"That's the one."

Canny Big Hamish grinned. "He looked canny afeart of the Voldiemorty man and his funny snake face." he replied cheerfully. "He tried to whang him wi' his magic stick. They were fichtin' wi' their wee sticks when we left 'em."

McGonagall sighed with quiet relief. So, Voldemort really was gone, then? She hadn't dared to believe it until now. Terrified Death Eaters was one thing, but now, she had the verification of the Feegles who were just so simple that they didn't have the brains to make up an untruth about it, it was all but set in stone. Especially, when it was a victorious battle in their eyes.

"What did you do to Voldemort's friends?" she asked, curious about what had instigated such terror in the Death Eaters.

Unless Wee Daft Boab had lifted his kilt again, the Feegles didn't look all that scary, but - she supposed - if you had one of their knobbly heads smacking you between the eyes, then it might give you a slightly different perspective.

Hamish made a face that said it all. "They didnae hov a clue whit tae dae wi' us," he said airily. "Ah dinnae think they'll be wantin' tae see us again, though." Minerva squashed a grin at that understatement. "An' there were that many that they kept bashin' each ither. They didnae even look doon tae find us."

McGonagall chuckled. "They won't even talk about what happened, they are that afraid of any repercussions," she said. "No one aside from your clan, Albus and I are aware of what went on."

Canny Big Hamish eyed her keenly. "So... we willnae be remembered by the bigjobs, then? Nae names being writted doon and put in papers?"

"Only my papers and memories, Mr Mac Feegle," she said with all honesty, then one side of her mouth lifted up at the corner. "After all, it does seem that I'm meant to be your Gonnagle, does it not?"

Canny Big Hamish beamed up at her. "An' we'll find a Kelda eventually," he said cheerfully. "But I'm no' in any hurry tae settle doon. An' we've just found a nice wee place to make into oor hoose."

The witch shivered at the evening's chill, wrapping her arms around herself. "And you're quite happy to stay in the forest?" she said. "I mean, I'm sure we could find somewhere in the castle."

"Och, no, Mistress Mac Gonagall," the Feegle said. "We dinnae want tae be runnin' intae the wee bigjobs a' the time." He shuddered. "An' a' the book-learnin' that goes on in there isnae right. We'll be fine richt here."

"Well, if you need anything..."

The Feegle grinned gummily up at her. "We'll filch it and be offski afore ye kent we were there."

"I expected as much," Minerva said dryly. "And the occasional visit wouldn't go amiss, you know."

"Aye?"

The witch smiled down at the kilted man. "Aye." she said, her eyes twinkling. "You have to keep your Gonnagle up to date on what's happening, don't you?"

Canny Big Hamish offered her a half-bow, as much respect as could be expected from a Pictsie. "That we do, Mistress," he said proudly. "Imagine, us havin' the only Mac Gonagall Hag fur oor wee clan." He bowed again, then was gone in a blur of motion.

Turning back towards the castle, Minerva couldn't help smiling as she walked up the grassy slope towards Hogwarts; Respected because of her great-grandfather's abysmal poetry by a mad band of drinking, fighting and stealing fairies, who had just unknowingly saved the wizarding world from disaster.

Sometimes, life just throws up a whole topic for the memoirs in one vast lump.

_And no one, the Hag Mac Gonagall of the Forbidden Forest Clan of Nac Mac Feegles thought, would believe a word of it._


End file.
